Dim Sum After Fisticuffs
by MysteriousTwinkie
Summary: Just a place to put random Olicity bits that don't go anywhere else. Since apparently I'm writing Tumblr prompt fic now. :P
1. Chapter 1--It Was Over

**Tumblr Prompt Fic—Established Olicity—Oliver thinks Felicity is going to break up with him**

It was over.

Felicity might not have said the words yet, but Oliver knew they were coming. She just kept pulling away. It had been weeks since they'd had an actual date, and while part of it was due to the crazed killer they'd been tracking, part of it was also Felicity avoiding being alone with him.

When Oliver realized what was happening, he was devastated. He couldn't even take it out on the training dummies or the salmon ladder. He just slid to the floor and stayed there. It was supposed to have been forever. Him and Felicity. When he kissed her for the first time (_finally_), it was supposed to be his last first kiss. He'd made it count.

There was an engagement ring wrapped in plastic and hidden in the toilet tank (it was the only place in her—_their_—apartment where he was sure she wouldn't find it). It was the most simple piece in the family collection, because he knew her well enough now to understand that she wouldn't want anything ostentatious, or anything that would impede her typing ability. What should he do with it now? How could he have read her so terribly, terribly wrong?

Days later, he crept through the apartment while she was asleep (on the couch, not in the bed with him) and went into the bathroom. As quietly as he could, he lifted the lid off the toilet tank, but his grip was awkward and it clanked loudly as he set it on the counter. Oliver cringed, waiting to hear if he'd woken Felicity up.

After a few moments of silence, he reached into the toilet tank. But the plastic bundle wasn't there. He peered in, getting a spritz of water in the face for his effort. The wrapped ring was nowhere to be found. Frantically, he looked around the bathroom, but he had no idea what could have happened.

A soft knock at the door brought up his head with a jerk.

"Oliver?"

He wiped his hands on his sweatpants and opened the door.

Felicity's hair was all flat on one side, and the waffle pattern of one of her throw pillows was imprinted on her cheek. She'd never been more beautiful. And this was it. She was going to say the words, ending their forever.

"Are you looking for this?" she asked, holding up her left hand. She was wearing the ring.

"When did you—How—"

"The toilet wasn't flushing, so I opened the lid to see what was going on, and I found it."

Oliver sighed. "Why are you wearing it if you're just going to break up with me?"

"What?" Genuine surprise showed on her face. "Why would I break up with you?"

"I honestly have no idea." Oliver sank onto the toilet. "But you've been so … far away. I figured you were getting ready to split."

She knelt next to him and took his hand in both of hers. The ring was warm against his skin—she'd been wearing it for a while. How had he not noticed? Had he started pulling away too?

"I found the ring weeks ago," said Felicity. "It freaked me out. I've never—this is the longest relationship I've ever been in. And I can count the relationships I've been in on one hand and not even use all my fingers. I got scared."

"But you're wearing it now," Oliver pointed out.

"Yeah. I was worried the water could damage it. I figured you could ask me any old time. Like, oh, say, now, for instance."

He smiled. "But you're the one who's kneeling."

"It'll make a great story," she replied. "You panicking, me kneeling, and especially the toilet."


	2. Chapter 2--She Was Asleep

**_(A/N: This is a gift of sorts for missmudpie on Tumblr, who made an adorable post like a week ago that was just a snatch of dialogue where Oliver fell all over himself trying to ask Felicity out. And also for ash818, who was like WRITE IT. Well, I did. It took me a week, and I almost psyched myself out. Special thanks to thatmasquedgirl, who read it for me when I finally finished.)_  
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She was asleep when he let himself into her hospital room. Oliver hated to wake her—it was hard for Felicity to get a decent night's sleep when nurses were stopping in to check her vitals every hour. But he knew he'd never hear the end of it if he didn't rouse her for this.

"Felicity."

Her eyes fluttered open. It always worked. She was so attuned to the way he said her name that he didn't even have to squeeze her shoulder anymore. Just the word itself was enough to wake her.

"Hi," she said.

"Hi."

"Do you need something?" she asked, squinting without her glasses. "Because I was having this really great dream, and if I go right to sleep again, I can probably get back to it."

"Oh, really. What kind of dream?"

A blush quickly worked its way up her neck and across her face.

"_Oh_," he said with a grin. "_That_ kind of dream."

Felicity smacked his arm. While it was playful, there was more force to the action than there'd been in weeks. A good sign.

"No! Not that kind of dream. It totally wasn't—oh, forget it," she said, waving her hand dismissively.

"Well, far be it from me to interrupt your happy fun times, but . . ." Oliver handed her his phone.

She squinted at the screen, and then her mouth dropped open.

"Don't scream," he warned her. "If you start screaming, your nurse will think I'm abusing you or something, and she won't let you go downstairs."

"D—downstairs?" Felicity looked up. Tears shone in her blue eyes. "You mean we can go see . . ."

"Only if you don't scream. And you have to go in a wheelchair."

"Oliver, I don't need a wheelchair. I've been walking on my own for days."

"Not this far, you haven't. If you want to go downstairs, it'll be on four wheels."

"Of course I want to go downstairs." She dropped the phone on the bed and threw back the covers. "Bring me my chariot."

He laughed. "I told that tech that's like twelve years old that we'd need a wheelchair when I came in. He's probably waiting in the hall."

Oliver stood off to one side while Felicity sat up and got out of bed. He was expressly forbidden from helping her unless she asked. She was determined to do as much as she could for herself in order to get out of the hospital as soon as possible, and it had worked. They were talking about letting her go home as soon as tomorrow.

The IV had been removed that morning, and she only had to wear the nasal cannula if she felt like she needed the oxygen—mostly she hadn't. So there were no tubes or lines to deal with this time. Her Superman pajama pants were rucked up to her knees, and as she swung her legs out of bed, she shook them out. She wore a bright yellow cardigan over her red tank top, but her feet were bare, her toes unpainted. Oliver passed her the pair of fuzzy green socks that had been on a nearby chair.

Felicity bent to put on the socks but stopped halfway down. "It—I shouldn't—" She looked up at him, an unspoken plea in her eyes.

Oliver took the socks from her and crouched next to the bed. He put the socks on and gave her feet a squeeze before standing up and offering her his hand.

"I'm so excited, I might throw up," she said as he drew her up.

"Are you serious?" he asked, glancing around, wondering where the emesis basin had gone. He had been with her every step of the way, but the one thing he couldn't handle was vomiting. His best friend's near-death experience was a hell of time to discover he was a sympathetic vomiter.

"Not literally throw up," Felicity clarified. "I'm just really, really excited."

He smiled. "Grab your hoodie."

"What for?"

"Because you always get cold when you leave your room, and it's warmer than my jacket. Plus, _I_ might need my jacket."

With her hoodie tucked under her arm, she walked into the hallway on her own and glared at the nursing tech before sitting in the wheelchair. It was a token glare, just her letting everyone know she thought the wheelchair was ridiculous. In reality, Felicity had stolen the hearts of everyone she'd met in the hospital. Oliver was pretty sure she had no idea of the effect she had on people, from her nurses and doctors to Roy and Oliver and Digg to hardened assassins like Nyssa al'Ghul.

Oliver took over from the nursing tech and pushed Felicity's wheelchair while she sat with her hands folded in her lap. The maternity ward was on the second floor; Felicity's room was on the seventh. In the crowded elevator, he leaned down to whisper in her ear.

"This would be a lot faster on a zip line."

She laughed. It was bright and sparkling, and he wondered how everyone else in the elevator could just continue to stare straight ahead. But they didn't know what he knew. That her laughter had been in short supply, and her smiles mostly half-hearted or sheepish, since she'd been in the hospital.

Oliver handed Felicity his phone so she could double-check the room number Dig had texted him. He pushed the wheelchair out of the elevator and down the hall. The signs in the hospital were clear and well-posted, but Felicity had to point them out anyway and tell him where to turn. She was the same way in the car. It would be annoying if it wasn't so adorable.

When he knocked softly on the door, Diggle's low voice beckoned them to enter.

Lyla was asleep in a hospital bed that was bigger and looked more comfortable than Felicity's. Her face was flushed, her hair dampened with sweat. Dig sat in a rocking chair next to the bed, cradling a pink-wrapped bundle in his huge arms. Felicity got up from the wheelchair, her forgotten hoodie sliding to the floor. She stood next to Dig and peered down at his newborn daughter.

"Hi, Digglet," she whispered. "It's so nice to finally meet you."

"Does she have a name yet?" asked Oliver.

"No," Dig replied. "We'd pretty much decided on something, but we'll wait until Momma wakes up to do the birth certificate."

"Well, I'll just tell you now, I won't be calling her anything but Digglet," said Felicity. "At least until about a year after she's old enough to start really being embarrassed by it."

"Do you want to hold her?" Diggle asked her.

"Do I? Does a—Oh, just gimme." Felicity held her hands out.

"Why don't you sit first? You look like you're about to fall over."

"I know, right?" said Oliver. "I can't believe they want to send her home tomorrow."

Felicity glared at him as she returned to the wheelchair. They'd had that conversation—argument—more than once since her doctor raised the idea of her discharge. Felicity didn't want to stay in the hospital a second longer than she had to, but if Oliver had his way, she'd be here until she was completely back to normal. But he was alone in a losing battle against Felicity, her doctor, and all the nurses who kept exclaiming how well she was doing.

"_Oh_," Felicity whispered as Diggle set the child in her waiting arms. "She's so light."

Dig drew Oliver aside. "Hallway. Now."

Oliver raised his eyebrows but did as Diggle commanded and followed him out to the hallway.

"Did you do it?" Dig asked him when they were out of earshot of Lyla's room.

"Not yet."

"If you're waiting for the perfect time, you'll wait forever. But I'd say now is pretty favorable. She'll be all mushy from holding the baby. If you're still worried that she'll turn you down."

Oliver rubbed his fingers together. Of course he was worried. It terrified him. That was why he'd waited this long. Felicity wasn't easy to read, and he had no assurance of success.

"Just do it, man," Dig urged, pushing him toward the open door. "She's never gonna be less scary than she is right now."

He sighed and strode back into the room. Felicity turned to look up at him, and it was ridiculous and cliché and way too soon to be having those kinds of thoughts, but the sight of her smiling with a new baby in her arms took his breath away.

"Felicity, I—"

"Oh my God, sit down, Oliver, before you pass out," she said.

"What? I'm fine," he said. His fingers rubbed together faster now as he tried to remember how he wanted to word this. He felt like he could start a fire with them.

"You just went totally pale. Sit down," Felicity commanded.

"No, I need to ask you something first."

"Sit, or I will make you sit, wheelchair, baby, and all."

Her eyes flashed, and he had no doubt she would follow through on her threat. So he sank onto the rocking chair.

"Are you okay?" Felicity asked. "Put your head between your knees . . . Oh, wait. That's what they tell you to do in a plane crash. Maybe you should just take some deep breaths."

"I'm fine," Oliver insisted. "I just need to ask you—"

"Ask me anything you want, as long as you stay in that chair."

He closed his eyes briefly and took a deep breath. Why was this so hard? It was Felicity. How could asking her out be so much more difficult than actually saying he loved her? (Not that she believed him.)

"What's going on, Oliver?" Her voice had taken on a softer tone. "Talk to me."

"I want to ask you out, and I'm kind of nervous about it," he said, looking at the floor. "More than kind of."

"You're just saying that because I look all maternal with a baby in my arms."

He lifted his head to meet her gaze. She must have seen something there because the joking smile disappeared from her face, giving way to an expression remarkably similar to the one she'd had after his declaration. Shock.

"You _are_ serious."

"Yeah." His fingers rubbed together. "Do you—would you—have dinner with me sometime?"

"A date. An actual date. Just you and me." Her glasses were slipping down her nose, but her arms were full of brand-new baby. He reached forward and pushed them up, which made her smile. "For real?"

"I'll try not to take it personally that you think I'm kidding," said Oliver, but he was smiling now. Incredulity was a better reaction than a flat-out no.

"You two are ridiculous," Lyla said, blinking sleep out of her eyes.

"No kidding," said Dig from the doorway.

"Hand her over," Lyla said to Felicity. She held out her hands.

Oliver made a move to help Felicity, but a look from her put him back in the chair. She rose gracefully to her feet and stepped around the bed. After giving the baby to Lyla, she turned back toward the wheelchair, but Oliver reached up and grabbed her hips, pulling her down to sit on his knees. She just looked up at him with her mouth hanging open.

"God, you're so thin. I forgot how much weight you lost in here."

"How would you know how much I weigh, creeper?" she asked.

"I know how you feel in my arms," he said.

Lyla cackled.

"From the zip-lining."

"Right." Felicity stared right into his eyes, and he got the feeling she was looking for something there, something very particular. "You're serious."

"Yes, I'm serious," said Oliver. "I only let girls named Felicity who I've been working up the nerve to ask out for months sit on my lap while I wait for an answer. So could you put me out of my misery?"

She threw her arms around him and pressed her face into his neck. The edge of her glasses was poking him in the throat, but he barely felt it.

"Okay," she mumbled. "I'd like that."


	3. Chapter 3-When the Rain Washes You Clean

_**(A/N: thatmasquedgirl had a rough day, so I wrote this for her instead of working on my novel.)**_

**When the Rain Washes You Clean**

Starling City's fearsome hooded vigilante hated thunderstorms. It was a fact, Felicity was pretty sure, known only to her and Diggle.

It had taken her some time to spot the pattern, the correlation between severe weather and times when Oliver would seek refuge in the Foundry when no criminals were afoot and no crisis was happening.

Part of what clued her in was his behavior. He'd be edgy, restless—more so than usual—moving from the practice dummies to the salmon ladder to that huge tractor tire. He wouldn't sharpen arrows or do anything else involving electricity, and he gave her workstation and the servers a wide berth.

Oliver confessed late one night when Diggle and Roy had both gone home hours before. Felicity was scrutinizing lines of code for traces of a rival hacker, and Oliver was beating the crap out of a practice dummy. Sound didn't travel much from upstairs, so she dismissed the low rumble as thumping bass from the music playing in Verdant.

A brutal blow knocked the practice dummy off its base and sent it skidding across the floor.

Felicity spun around in her chair. "Okay, what is eating you?" she demanded.

Oliver blew out a noisy breath. "It's the thunder."

"Is this an island thing?"

He nodded. "There was nowhere to hide during storms. We were totally vulnerable. Rain was bad enough, but lightning could hurt us or start a fire, bring trees down . . ." Oliver glanced up, pain in his eyes. "My first night at home, there was a thunderstorm. I woke up on the floor with my hands around my mother's neck."

Felicity would have put her hand on his arm if he'd been close enough, but he eyed the computers with suspicion.

She opened a new browser window and pulled up a radar image. Oliver drew closer, looking over her shoulder.

"What's that?" he asked.

"The storm." Felicity pointed at the bright green blob on the screen. "The National Weather Service is much more accurate than the local TV stations." She peered at the image. "It's moving pretty quickly. It'll probably be out of here in fifteen or twenty minutes."

"Too long," he muttered.

Felicity kept one eye on the radar and one on Oliver. He ran his hands over the collection of arrows, his compound bow and his regular bow, but everything was in pristine condition. There was nothing to fix. He paced the length of the Foundry a few times before it really started getting on her nerves.

She checked the radar image one last time, and then got up from her chair.

"Come with me," she said, holding out her hand.

Oliver hesitated.

"I have a plan," Felicity continued. "Do you trust me?"

"Absolutely," said Oliver, "but your plans tend to be—"

"Effective?" she supplied. "Awesome?"

"Extreme."

"One time I suggest blowing up a building. One time." She grabbed his hand and headed for the stairs.

He resisted. "I don't want to go up there until that storm is long gone."

"It _is_ gone. Mostly."

"Felicity."

"Come on, Oliver." She tugged on his hand, and he trudged up the stairs after her. "I know your trust is greater than your fear, and you know I'd never put you in harm's way just to prove a point."

"What about that night with the arsonist, when you sent me into a burning building?" he asked.

"That was one time," she replied. "And I didn't know the place was on fire."

Felicity glanced back. He was smiling now. A good sign, even if it had come at her own expense. It occurred to her that she should probably let go of his hand, now that they were up the stairs and walking down the hall to the back exit. But she couldn't bring herself to do it. With her free hand, she pushed open the door.

"Felicity, it's raining," Oliver pointed out.

"I know. That's the whole point."

She stepped outside and was quickly drenched by the steady downpour. Oliver remained just inside the door. He tugged on her hand, still enfolded in his, but she shook her head.

"Come on," Felicity urged.

Oliver sighed and walked out into the rain with her.

"See? There are good things about the rain," she said.

"Like what?"

"It washes everything clean." Felicity sniffed the air. "Can't you smell that?"

"We're in an alley behind a nightclub," he said. "It smells like beer and garbage."

She bumped her shoulder against his arm. "Give me something to work with here."

A distant—very distant—rumble of thunder had Oliver flinching and eyeing the open back door, but she squeezed his hand, bringing his focus back to her.

"There was a storm the night the _Queen's Gambit_ went down," he said.

"I know." She tipped her head back and let the rain hit her face, drops splashing across the lenses of her glasses until everything was a wet blur. "I remember it. I mean, I remember seeing it on the news. I was still at MIT."

Oliver took off her glasses. "Talk about vulnerable. There's nothing more vulnerable than being in an open life raft on the ocean during a thunderstorm."

"But this feels different, right?" Felicity asked. "And _you're_ different now." She leaned into him, too short to lay her head on his shoulder. She settled for his bicep. "You're different from the guy in that raft, and you're different from the man who woke up strangling his mother."

He turned so they were facing each other now instead of side by side. "It's not like they're other people. They're all different sides of me. The scared kid puking over the side of the life boat and praying not to get hit by lightning. The dark and scarred man who couldn't shut his eyes for ten minutes without having nightmares. This, in the rain, with you. They're still part of me." His free arm encircled her waist. With his hand pressed in the small of her back, he drew her in, dipped his head so his lips brushed against her hairline. "I'm always going to be scared, and dark, and scarred."

"And I'm always going to be right next to you, holding your hand in the rain."


	4. Chapter 4--Pretty Please With a Cherry

_**(A/N: WHAT IS MY LIFE. I blame Abbie for this. It was her freaking birthday and her freaking ship. It was SUPPOSED to be Flommy friendship. And then it got kind of . . . not friendshippy. All I wanted to do was write a little something to explain why Tommy had Felicity's number in his phone, and this happened. It's all Abbie's fault.)**_

**Pretty Please With a Cherry on Top**

"Excuse me."

Tommy sidestepped, making room in the narrow hall for a cute blonde with her arms full to squeeze past. She had one box stacked precariously on top of another, and a large tote bag on her shoulder.

"Let me help you with that," he said, taking the top box.

"Oh, you don't have to—"

But he already had. Tommy tucked the box under his arm and held out his free hand for the one she still carried.

"Be careful," she warned. "It's—"

"Oof." Tommy stumbled under the added weight.

"Heavy," the girl finished. "I'll take the lighter one." She pushed up her glasses and then plucked the smaller box from under his arm. "I probably should have made two trips."

"Or you could have asked for help," Tommy suggested. "There's a strapping young bartender whose shift starts any minute, and, if he shows up tonight, the club's owner? His bodyguard is seriously ripped. Arms like bowling balls."

She smiled. "That bartender hits on me every time he sees me. And I don't think Oliver—Mr. Queen—will be here till later."

"Well, tell me where we're headed with these boxes, and then I have questions for you," Tommy said, unable to keep the sparkle of amusement out of his voice.

"This way." She turned down the hallway.

Tommy followed her, admiring the view. "_So_ many questions," he murmured.

She hesitated at the door marked "Sewer Access."

"We can just leave them here," she said, setting her box on the floor outside the door. "When Diggle gets here I'll give him my sad face and he'll carry everything downstairs for me."

Tommy set his box next to hers. "What's in these things, anyway? Dumbbells? Sumo wrestlers? The weight of my conscience?"

That brought out another smile.

"Computer parts," she said. "I'm setting up the network here, and I told Oliver—Mr. Queen—that the servers should be in the coolest part of the building."

"Shouldn't they also be in the driest?" asked Tommy, pointing at the word "sewer" on the door.

"It says 'Sewer _Access_,' as in there's a big steel door down there. It doesn't mean you'd open that door and step into a fetid river."

_Fetid_? Where had Ollie found this girl? She was adorable.

But first things first. He went into the main floor of the club and tore the early shift bartender a new one for hitting on girls who didn't want to be hit on, and for hitting on girls on the job in the first place. Like a lot of things he'd done lately, it gave him a weird sense of satisfaction.

"Is this what being a responsible adult feels like?" he asked himself.

"No, it's about fifty percent confusion, and forty percent fear."

Tommy turned around. The cute blonde must have literally just walked up, because her ponytail was still swinging.

"That's ninety percent," he pointed out. "What's the leftover ten?"

"Alcohol." She reached around him to pinch a maraschino cherry from a bowl on the bar. When she discarded the stem and dropped the bright red fruit in her mouth, Tommy realized she wasn't just cute—she was _hot_.

The girl sputtered, choking on the cherry. Tommy wasn't sure if he should whack her on the back or give her the Heimlich. By the time he'd decided not to try anything he wasn't sure how to spell, she'd coughed a few times and seemed to be fine.

He winced. "I said that out loud, didn't I?"

"Oh, it's no big deal," the girl said. "It happens to me all the time. Saying stuff out loud that I shouldn't, I mean, not people telling me I'm hot."

"There are a lot of ways I could respond to that, but all of them would make me sound like a total creep." He held out his hand. "I'm Tommy—"

"I know who you are," she said, cutting him off as she shook his hand.

"But I don't know who you are."

"Well, in the interest of full disclosure, my name is Felicity Smoak. I'm the genius IT girl who's been sneaking in here every night to eat your cherries." She screwed her eyes shut for a moment. "And there is _no_ way to rephrase that without making it sound even dirtier."

Tommy was grinning now. "I've noticed the maraschino shortage. Sweet tooth?"

Felicity shrugged, which did interesting things to parts of her he really should not be staring at.

"Just ch—maraschinos," she corrected herself. "It's a nostalgia thing, I guess. I grew up hanging around Vegas casinos, drinking Shirley Temples."

"_Really_." He propped one elbow on the bar and leaned in. "I did say I have questions. Now I have even more." He noticed her glancing warily about the room and realized she was distracted. "He's not here. Kevin. He's in the back, and he knows not to hit on anyone while he's working, or you, ever."

Felicity sighed loudly.

"What?" asked Tommy. "Should I not have said anything? Because I don't think I could have kept my mouth shut. I have a sister. Well, my best friend's sister, but she's _like_ my sister, and if Kevin had a go at her, I'd kick his ass." He narrowed his eyes. "Did you want me to kick his ass?"

"Not today," Felicity replied. "It just makes me mad that 'no' meant nothing to him until _you_ said it."

Her words chilled Tommy, whether or not that had been her intention. He was going to fire Kevin as soon as Felicity was out of earshot.

"You had questions?" she asked, pulling him out of his darkening thoughts. Tommy still didn't know where Oliver had found her, but it was easy to see why he wanted her around.

"You have no idea how many," Tommy said.

Felicity smiled. "I'll give you one."

"So I see you two have met."

Tommy glanced over Felicity's shoulder to see Oliver, his bodyguard at his elbow.

"Hey, man, I was just trying to poach your tech genius," Tommy said.

"Hands off."

He was still smiling, but Tommy could spot Oliver's fake smile from a hundred yards. Oliver nodded at his bodyguard, and they headed for the service hallway where Felicity's boxes were.

"One question, huh?" he asked Felicity.

"Make it a good one."

"May I have your phone number?"

Felicity dropped the cherry that was on its way to her mouth. "Why?"

"It's my question. I can ask whatever I want."

She frowned, then shrugged and held out her hand. He slapped his phone into it. While she put in her number, Tommy plucked a cherry from the bowl. She gave the phone back, and he handed her the cherry.

"What's this for?" she asked.

"Smile."

Tommy snapped a photo of her with his phone and saved it in her contact details. She was laughing, the cherry caught between her teeth. It was ridiculously sexy, and he was glad he'd caught the moment because he was pretty sure Oliver would never let him get this close to Felicity again.


	5. Chapter 5--Hear the Snow Crunch

**Hear the Snow Crunch—Grad/Holiday Fic for Masque**

_**(A/N: **_**_This is a combination graduation/Christmas gift for the wonderful thatmasquedgirl, who has made the last year so much fun. She asked for Christmas + caroling. She got Christmas + nut allergy-which is what *I* asked for-and I managed to shoehorn a little caroling in there. Next time I do Christmas fic, I will write it way in advance of the actual holiday and then maybe it will get posted in a timely manner. :P)_**

Oliver shut the car door and pulled his phone from his pocket. The text from his mother had been very specific about which laptop to get Thea. Walter had done research, she said. Walter asked someone in IT at Queen Consolidated, it meant. The model number, the amount of RAM, the software—it was all in the text. Oliver was tempted to just show his phone to a salesperson and send them running, but that was the kind of jerky thing Tommy's dad would do.

As he approached the electronics store, another text came in, the phone vibrating in his hand. It was from Tommy. Oliver swiped at the screen to read the new text, but before the words came into focus, a burst of pain blossomed from his nose and radiated across his face. The phone slipped from his fingers.

"Oh! Oh my God, I'm so sorry! Are you okay?"

Oliver looked up, into the face of a woman maybe a few years younger than him. Her blue eyes were wide and worried behind her glasses as she reached toward him with purple-gloved hands.

"I think I just broke your nose," she said, wincing.

"It's not broken," he assured her.

"How can you tell?"

"Because you're touching it and I'm not screaming," Oliver said.

"That's not very scientific."

The girl dropped her hands. She was blushing and it was kind of adorable. _She_ was kind of adorable.

"Maybe your nose isn't broken, but it _is_ bleeding, and it would be a shame to ruin that sweater. It looks really good on you." Her eyebrows went up. "I mean, I like it . . . I like you in it. Oh God, I'm just making it sound even worse, and you're bleeding everywhere."

Her face was bright red now, and a smile tugged at Oliver's lips as she turned away from him to bend over and dig through the large tote bag at her feet. The girl wore thick black snow pants and a shiny, puffy red coat. She came up with a packet of tissues and handed them to him.

"I'm so sorry," she said as he gingerly pressed a tissue under his nose. "I was doing jumping jacks, and my back was turned, and—"

"You were doing _what_?"

"Jumping jacks," she said. "To warm up."

"It's not that cold out," Oliver said. "Don't you feel a bit overdressed?"

"I've been out here for three hours," she said. "And I finished off my coffee in the first twenty minutes. So I was doing jumping jacks. I so didn't mean to hit you, though. Are you still bleeding? Why don't you sit?" She gestured to a camp chair set close to the wall of the building.

Oliver dropped into the chair, and the woman bent over him. She took his hand down from his face and then carefully pulled away the tissue.

"Mr. Queen . . . Mr. Queen!"

His eyes resumed focus, met hers, and something sparked. There was a flutter in his chest he was sure he hadn't felt since he was a teenager.

"You went somewhere else for a minute," said the young woman. "I think you might have a concussion."

"You didn't hit me _that_ hard," he said. "Anyway, Mr. Queen was my father."

"But he's dead . . . I mean, he drowned." She was blushing again. "And you didn't, which is why you're here, listening to me babble. Which will end in 3 . . . 2 . . . 1."

A widening smile stretched long-disused muscles in his face.

"Well, you obviously know my name," he said, "but I don't know yours."

"Felicity Smoak." She raised her hand to shake, and then noticed she was still clasping his hand. She dropped it like it was on fire and looked away. "Oh, no, your phone!"

Oliver followed her gaze. His phone lay on the sidewalk, the black case cracked. When Felicity picked it up, he could see that the screen was spider-webbed with cracks too.

"I may not have broken your nose, but I definitely broke your phone," she said, offering it to him. "This model's top-of-the-line. I'd offer to pay for it, but I'd have to take out a loan, and I don't think my bank would buy me saying that I was a flailing idiot."

Oliver waved her off. "I'm the one who dropped it. I'll just pick up a new one while I'm here."

"Well, I'm sorry to have ruined your evening, Oliver." She took off a glove and gently probed the skin around his nose and eye with cold fingers. Her nails were painted mint green. "By the time you get to the front of the line, you'll have a shiner."

For the first time, he noticed something other than her, taking in his surroundings. Felicity's chair was in the middle of a line that stretched across the front of the store and went around the side of the building. Most of the people were bundled up like Felicity and held thermoses or red Starbucks cups.

"Is this the line just to get in?" he asked.

"This is the line for the—" She rattled off a series of numbers and letters that had Oliver utterly lost. "It just came out, but this place will start selling it for a massive discount at midnight." She checked her own phone. "Four more hours," she groaned, "and I have to pee." She covered her mouth with her ungloved hand, the pink on her cheeks deepening.

"Just run inside. I'll hold your spot for you."

"Really? Oh, thank you so much!" Felicity gushed. "I've had to pee since I got here, and then I had all that coffee."

"Go, he said, grinning. "I'll be waiting right here when you get back, I promise."

She removed her other glove and tossed the pair on his lap. "I'll be right back. Unless I get distracted by something shiny."

Oliver watched her walk up past the front of the line and enter the store. Then he examined his phone. It definitely needed to be replaced—the screen wouldn't come on—but he was able to make a call.

"Oliver, man, where are you?" Tommy's voice sounded weird coming from the damaged phone. "Your sister's driving me crazy." He must have held the phone away from his face then, because Oliver could barely hear his next words. "I will _not_ watch _Holiday Inn_ with you, Speedy. There's not enough alcohol in the world for that, let alone this house."

"Thea knows exactly what I'm doing," said Oliver. "I'm getting her the new laptop she's spent the last two months begging for. But, uh . . ." He looked ahead. "I have to wait in line because it doesn't go on sale until midnight."

Tommy laughed. "You're Oliver Queen! Pour on the charm and jump the line."

"I—I don't want to."

There was a commotion on the other end of the line, and then he heard his sister's voice.

"Oh my God, Ollie, did you meet someone? At the Tech Village? That's so cute! Now give her your number and jump the line."

Felicity stepped into view, carrying a shopping bag, her eyes shining.

"There are a lot of people waiting, Thea," he said, smiling at Felicity. "I'm not going to be that entitled ass." Before his sister could protest, he continued. "Look, I dropped my phone, and I don't know how long it'll keep working. Why don't you and Tommy pick us up some coffee?"

"'Us'? I knew it!" Thea said, triumphant. "I have to meet this girl you'd wait in line for. How does she take her coffee?"

"Just get a couple of those Christmas lattés, the praline whatever." Oliver glanced up at Felicity, who was shaking her head and frantically waving her hands. "Thea, wait," he said.

"I'm allergic to nuts," Felicity whisper-yelled.

"Thea," Oliver said. "Thea?" He checked the phone, but with the screen not working, he had no way of knowing if his phone had just dropped the call or if it was finally dead.

"I'm really sorry," Felicity said. "You wouldn't have dropped your phone if I hadn't whacked you in the face."

Oliver made a grab for her hand mid-flail. "Felicity, stop apologizing." He nodded toward her shopping bag. "Something shiny?"

"I couldn't help myself. I needed a new cover for my tablet anyway."

He let go of her hand. She pulled out a box and held it up for him to see. The tablet cover was bright blue, emblazoned with Superman's red and yellow S.

"It's pretty nerdy for the workplace," she said, "but I _am_ in IT. And I'm not even the biggest nerd. David Jordan's cubicle is so full of _Doctor Who_ stuff that he can barely move around in it."

"You're in IT?" Oliver asked.

"Yeah. I work for you, actually." She put the case back in her shopping bag. "Well, your stepfather."

"You wouldn't happen to be the IT expert who helped him figure out what computer to buy, would you?"

"That's me," Felicity replied.

She picked up her gloves from his lap. Even through his jeans, he felt a zing as her fingers brushed against his thigh.

"I wouldn't say I'm an expert," she continued, putting the gloves back on, "except I am, I guess. My so-called supervisor says I have authority issues and I'm not management material, but who cares, right? Someone has to do the real work in that department, and it might as well be a genius from MIT because it's sure as hell not him."

Oliver's smile had slowly grown during her rant until his face actually hurt. He was considering sending flowers to the HR department at Queen Consolidated for recruiting her.

"Can we just forget I said all that?" Felicity asked. "I like my job, I really do. And I'd like to keep it."

"Your job is safe, Felicity. I have no say in how things are run at QC. But if I did, I'd promote you."

She frowned at him. "Are you flirting with me?"

"Maybe a little."

Lie. He was flirting his ass off, in a way he hadn't done since before the island, sitting in line with her for no reason other than to keep talking to her. And she was only just now figuring it out?

"Oh, okay," said Felicity. "I suppose that makes sense. Because it would be weird for you to say you'd promote me after I just slammed my boss." She pushed her glasses up on her nose. "Not that you flirting with me makes any more sense."

Oliver didn't know what to say. He just stared at her.

"Ollie! Hey, Ollie!"

Thea was hanging out the passenger side of Tommy's low-slung silver sports car, waving. The car pulled up to the curb, and Thea had her door open and had tumbled onto the sidewalk before it stopped moving.

"They can't park there," said Felicity, frowning at the yellow-striped curb. "It's a loading zone."

"Try telling _him_ that," Oliver replied.

Tommy's head popped up over the roof of the car. "Thea, you turned up the seat warmers way too high. My chestnuts are roasting."

"_Gross_," Thea said before turning to Oliver. "Ollie! Where's my computer?"

"Where's my coffee?" he countered.

She nodded back at Tommy. He made his way around the front of the car, balancing four bright red Christmas cups with cardboard sleeves, two in each hand.

"If I drop one, it's yours, Thea," he said, scowling, but his eyes were twinkling.

"Oh, quit whining. You should've asked for a drink carrier." Thea smoothed out her skirt. She'd thrown on a black pea coat over the sparkly dark red dress she'd worn at dinner.

"_You_ were supposed to be my drink carrier," said Tommy. "A little help here?"

Oliver jumped up and carefully took the top two cups from him. He squinted at the black marker scribbles on the side of each cup.

"Here," he said, handing one to Felicity. "It's a coconut mocha."

"Ooo, yum." She took the cup and wrapped both hands around it. "How much do I owe you?" she asked Tommy.

He shrugged. "It's coffee. You don't owe me anything. In fact, _I_ should pay _you_, assuming you had something to do with whatever happened to Oliver's face."

"It was an accident!"

"It's priceless," Tommy said. "I can't wait to see him explain a black eye to his mom."

Oliver handed Thea a cup. She held it up, read the writing on the side, and gave it back to him.

"Tommy, where's my mocha?" she asked.

"Oh, this must be yours," said Felicity, holding her cup out.

"Keep it," said Oliver. He turned to Thea. "Felicity's allergic to nuts. My phone died before I could tell you. The rest of these are nut-flavored."

"They might not be actual chestnuts and pralines," Felicity said. "You know that article that came out saying there's no actual pumpkin in a pumpkin spice latté? This could be the same. And I _do _have an Epi-Pen. Somewhere." She began digging with one hand into her voluminous tote.

"Oh my God, I'm not heartless!" Thea cried, half-laughing. "A coconut mocha isn't a hill I'm going to die on—or make _you_ die on." She snatched the cup back from Oliver and took a sip.

Tommy muttered something about Oliver missing a chance to give mouth-to-mouth, but Thea jabbed her pointy elbow into his ribs.

"Felicity, this is my sister, Thea, and my best friend, Tommy," said Oliver. "Guys, this is Felicity. She's the one who helped Walter figure out what laptop to get you, Thea."

Felicity smiled over the rim of her cup and gave a little wave.

"Speaking of, brother dear, why aren't you inside, buying said laptop?" Thea asked him.

"Yeah, why aren't you?" Tommy chimed in, grinning.

Oliver glanced at Felicity for help, but she was smiling too. "I'm kind of curious," she said.

"Well, my nose was bleeding," he finally replied. "And Felicity's good company."

Thea snorted. She plopped down in the camp chair and started chatting with Felicity about the specs of the laptop. Tommy drew Oliver aside.

"So you're picking up girls at Tech Village now?" he asked. "I know that island changed you, but I figured once a snob, always a snob."

"I didn't pick her up," Oliver insisted. "She hit me, and we started talking, and I just thought she'd like some coffee. She's been out here for hours."

"And you're going to stay out here with her for hours more." Tommy shook his head. "With all this effort, you better be _married_ when you get home. Which will also be fun to see you explain to your mom."

Tommy handed him a cup, but he declined with a wave of his hand. "No, man, that one has nuts too."

"What, suddenly _you_ can't have nuts now?"

Oliver shrugged. "If she carries an Epi-Pen everywhere, that's a pretty severe allergy. It's not a chance I want to take. I haven't gotten her number yet."

Tommy grinned. "Ah, now you're speaking my language. Say no more, my friend. I understand completely."

Oliver knew it was exactly what Tommy wanted to hear. Anything else would only lead to more questions, and he was eager to have Felicity all to himself again as soon as possible.

"Speedy!" Tommy called to Thea. "It's freezing out here, you're not dressed for it, and I owe you a musical, God help me."

Thea murmured something to Felicity that made the blonde turn a shade of red almost as bright as her coat, then jumped up to join Tommy.

"Are you sure you don't want this?" Tommy asked Oliver, holding out the last cup.

Oliver shook his head. "I won't risk it."

"Suit yourself," said Tommy. "More for me."

"I think you mean more for _me_," Thea said, snatching the cup from his hand.

"Hey!" He turned to Oliver. "You see what I have to put up with when you abandon me for smart, cute blondes with nut allergies."

"Just the one," Oliver said, unable to stop a genuine smile from spreading across his face.

When Thea and Tommy left, Oliver returned to Felicity's spot in line. She was sitting in her chair. Her bare hands were wrapped around her coffee cup, the gloves discarded in her lap.

"Thanks for the coffee," she said.

"Tommy paid for it."

"But you asked him to get it," she pointed out.

He shrugged. Talking was awkward when she was sitting—he towered over her. He hunkered down next to her and leaned against the building.

"How come you didn't go with them?" Felicity asked.

He glanced over at her. She was staring intently at the white lid on her cup, the rim marked with her bright pink lipstick.

"I still have to get Thea's computer," he said.

"But you don't have to wait in line for it."

"Nope."

She was giving him the side-eye. "Okay, _now_ you're really flirting."

"Now?" he asked. "Even though I've been in this line with you—that I don't need to be in—for half an hour? _Now_ you think I'm flirting?"

"Oh." Her voice sounded small.

He peeled her fingers off the cup and took her hand in his. It was cold. He tried to rub some warmth into her fingers. Someone in line behind them started to sing "Silver Bells." Felicity closed her eyes and hummed along, her hands still in Oliver's. That was one way to avoid the awkward moment.

She sang the second verse, her voice as deep as she could make it. It wasn't very deep, and Oliver tried not to laugh. And it seemed like a good time to let go of her hands, if he had to. She stopped at the chorus, but the singer behind them carried on.

They chatted easily for the next hour. Oliver learned that Felicity was from Vegas, that her mom was overbearing and a little embarrassing, that she was Jewish and had a menorah on her coffee table at home (she tried to teach him the dreidel song, but she was laughing too hard once they got to the "dreidel, dreidel, dreidel" part). And he made sure to get her number—she wrote it on the palm of his hand with a red pen, since his phone was broken.

Oliver left twice, to get food and more coffee, and a quick trip home for blankets and a heavier coat for himself. He'd had to sneak in through the kitchen to avoid his mother. Raisa, the housekeeper, had smiled knowingly and given him a paper plate full of an assortment of Christmas cookies, no nuts included, once he'd told her the short version of who he was with and what he was doing.

When he returned to the line at Tech Village, Felicity was slumped in her camp chair, dozing. Oliver draped a blanket over shoulders and tucked the other one over her lap. Another hour later, after the line began to move and they were just inside the store, Felicity was awake and brave enough to ask the question that had clearly been bothering her all night.

"Why'd you ask Tommy to bring coffee and then not have any yourself?"

"The nut thing," Oliver said. "Too risky."

"It's not _that_ big of a risk," she said. "I mean, unless you were planning on making out, in which case I have my Epi-Pen, but . . ." Her voice trailed off as she realized _he_ was the one blushing now.

"You _were_ planning on making out? But you just met me!"

Oliver shrugged. "I know. I just—I feel like I've known you a lot longer than that. I trust you, and that's . . . that's not an easy thing for me after my time away." He grinned. "And I saw that when I first got here." He pointed above their heads. A plastic sprig of mistletoe hung from the threshold over the door.

"Oh, so you just feel obligated because of the mistletoe, and the no-nut-flavored-coffee thing was so you wouldn't be serving up piping hot death on your lips—"

"Felicity." He cupped her face in his hands and pressed his lips to hers. He felt her cold fingers wrap around his wrists and pull him closer. After a minute, an hour, a lifetime—however long it was, it wasn't long enough—they pulled apart, and Oliver rested his chin against her forehead.

"In case you couldn't tell, there was no obligation in that," he whispered.


	6. Chapter 6--There's a Story Here

_**(A/N: This is a gift for geniewithwifi on Tumblr, as a thank-you for finding that Oliver/tux/crossing ankles gif for me in record time. She requested non-canon AU, and I remembered this librarian/avid reader idea and thought what fun it would be to NOT make Felicity the librarian. :P)**_

**There's a Story Here**

There was a new guy at Felicity's library, and he was _hot_. Tall and kind of broody-looking, with a scruffy jaw and huge biceps. And his eyes . . . _wow_. They were hard to look at straight on, but when she did, that line from _The Princess Bride_ came to mind: "Eyes like the sea after a storm." He was way too hot to be a librarian. Obviously there was a story there.

She was at the library almost every day for one reason or another, and she was a vocal patron, pointing out scratched DVDs, recommending better alternatives to the available books on coding, and griping when she couldn't find every book in a series. So it didn't take her long to uncover the pattern in the new guy's work shifts.

It took her two weeks of eyeing the shelves of new fiction with her head tilted at odd angles before she was able to catch a glimpse of his nametag. Oliver.

"Ugh, even his name is literary," she mumbled as she ran her finger across the titles and pulled one out at random. She grabbed a couple more, trying to move with purpose because she felt someone's eyes on her.

"You could do so much better than Patterson."

With a startled squeak, Felicity took a step backward. One of her cute, strappy heels caught, and she was falling, only to collide with a solid, _warm_ wall. Felicity turned her head. The new guy had caught her. And he was super-hot.

"Oh, wow," she blurted out. "I _love_ my library."

New guy—Oliver—tilted his head and huffed out a half-chuckle. He was still grasping her elbows, and she started to lean back into him because he was just so warm. But then he let go of her and stooped to pick up the books she'd dropped.

"Seriously," he said, straightening up and holding out her books, "try Connelly. Or Richard Castle, even. That's basically fan-fiction, and it's a hundred times better than Patterson."

"Oh." Felicity dropped the mystery novel like it had just burst into flames. "I _so_ didn't mean to grab that one. I do love Connelly, though. Not _love_-love, since I don't love everything of his. Just the ones about Harry Bosch. You did mean Michael Connelly, right?"

Oliver picked up the book again and re-shelved it. "Yes, I did. You have good taste." He held out his hand. "I'm Oliver Queen."

They shook hands. She looked down, admiring the contrast between his tanned fingers and her pale skin. Then she realized she'd been hanging onto his hand for a lot longer than was appropriate for a simple handshake. She let go.

"Felicity." Then she added, "Smoak."

His eyes brightened with recognition. "Oh, you're _Felicity_."

"Um, yes? Unless you've heard something unflattering about me, in which case, I have no idea who you're talking about."

"You do have a reputation around here," said Oliver, "but it's nothing bad, I promise. In fact, you've charmed the entire staff with your 'That Person' e-mails filled with emojis."

"My what e-mails?"

"You know, 'I hate to be That Person, but you have the first three books in this series, and you have book five, but not four and six.' 'I hate to be That Person, but the copy of _Waiting for Guffman_ I just returned is so scratched that I couldn't watch the epilogue, which is totally the best part.' And that strawberry-wearing-sunglasses emoji . . . Is that your favorite? Because there were four or five of them."

Felicity's jaw dropped. "I sent that two days ago. You read that?"

"I did." He smiled. "And then I went back and read them all. I think my favorite was the one where you asked when we'd be getting the next George R.R. Martin book, and you put in that Colbert gif with the grabby hands . . ."

Oh, God, he was _really_ smiling now, and it was devastating to her balance. She reached out and clung to one of the shelves, but her brain was stuck on something he'd said.

"You binge-read all my crazy e-mails?" she asked.

"Yeah," he said, unapologetic. "They made me curious about you. I asked around, but no one could put a face to your name."

"Probably because I don't usually let anyone check me out. Not that I wouldn't let you check me out, because I'd love for you to check me out . . . Wait. I meant checking out my _books_. Because I use the self check-out. And I'm just going to stop talking now before I say anything worse."

Oliver's smile widened. "Felicity, may I check you out? I promise it'll be a more pleasant experience than the self check-out."

She could _not_ be blushing any harder. It felt like her face (and her neck) had just burst into flames, and her stomach was turning in gleeful somersaults as she followed him to the desk.

They chatted as Oliver scanned her library card and her books (minus the Patterson novel). He quickly set her at ease, and she forgot her embarrassment and managed not to say anything that could be construed as some kind of innuendo. And later, when she was at home and had pulled the first book off the stack, a piece of paper fell out of it. Oliver had left her his name and number, and a little sketch that was a pretty close approximation of her favorite strawberry emoji.

She waited about two minutes before pulling out her phone.


	7. Chapter 7--The Family Jewels

_**(A/N: OMG. This think took over my life for days. It was supposed to be a thank-you fic for skcolicity, but it turned into this giant ball of feelings, and now it's going to be a multi-chapter fic at some point, because I have so many questions I want answers to.)**_

**The Family Jewels**

Felicity waited in the hall outside Connor's classroom and allowed herself to think, just for a minute, about how totally unfair this was.

She thought if she was ever going to parent Oliver's child that they'd at least be in a committed relationship, if not married. But no. They weren't in a relationship, and she was parenting because Oliver wouldn't.

She got where he was coming from. She did. It was a huge shock for everyone, and a double blow for Oliver to find that the last big secret he'd shared with his mother still wasn't the whole truth.

And Oliver was now, as she imagined he was back then, terrified of screwing up.

Felicity had left it alone for two months. Long enough for Oliver to get used to sharing the loft with a first grader, to keeping a fully stocked fridge, to tripping over small sneakers and an Iron Man backpack. Long enough for Connor to fit in at his hew school. And long enough for Felicity to fall in love with the soft-spoken little boy with light brown hair, a missing front tooth, and Oliver's eyes.

Connor was quiet and serious and tried to keep her at arm's length, as if he was afraid to get too attached, but Felicity wouldn't let him. She held his hand wherever they were except in the car and at school. She hugged him hello and goodbye, and kissed him goodnight. She looked him in the eye when she talked to him, and she talked to him _a lot_.

He tolerated the affection but never reciprocated, so today she was shocked beyond words when Connor came out of his classroom with a huge grin on his face and barreled into her, wrapping his arms around her waist.

"I won!" he said, his face pressed into her stomach.

Felicity finally unfroze and put her arms around him. "Cool! What did you win?"

"The math contest! Look!" Connor held out a paper. She took it.

Felicity recognized the worksheet he'd labored over the night before. He had been struggling a little with carrying and borrowing, but that math was so elementary and so long ago for her that she had no idea how to help him. She'd spent her lunch break today Googling tutoring techniques.

But Connor seemed to have figured it out on his own. His teacher had inked a red 100 on the top, and added a smiley face and a bright "Way to Go!" sticker.

"Wow, that's great!" She took his hand and they started down the hallway. "I didn't know there was a contest."

"Because I didn't tell you," Connor said. "I really wanted to do it by myself, without any help."

"I can understand that."

"But look, Felicity! Look what I won!" He shoved another piece of paper at her. It was a coupon for a free ice cream sundae at Starling Scoops. "Can we go? Can we go today?" Then he added, "Please."

"I don't see why not," Felicity replied. "Today's a good day for ice cream."

In the car, while Connor stowed his backpack and then turned on her satellite radio, Felicity sent a quick text to Oliver to meet them at Starling Scoops for a math celebration. Then she waited. Any time she texted or called about Connor, Oliver would take a long time to answer. When he didn't know what to do, he would just not do anything rather than risk doing the wrong thing.

They were halfway to the ice cream shop when Oliver finally replied that he couldn't break away from his meeting right then.

It was the usual excuse. Sure, he'd just gotten the company back and there were a lot of details to work out in the transition, but there'd been two months of excuses. If she could manage to wrap things up by 3:00 every day to pick up Connor from school, Oliver should be able to get away every once in a while. But he never did.

"This ends today," she muttered as she squeezed her Mini between two SUVs in front of Starling Scoops.

Felicity paid for her scoop of mint chocolate chip and then chose a table while Connor directed the girl behind the counter in the making of his sundae. He was soft-spoken, yes, but he was also, she'd discovered, opinionated and a little picky. He knew what he liked, and he wasn't afraid to say so once he was asked.

"This ends today," she said again, pulling out her phone. She'd installed an app of her own design on Oliver's phone ages ago, something that would allow her to open the line whether or not he accepted her call. This was the first time she'd ever had to use it. She set her phone off to one side, hoping Connor wouldn't notice anything different.

He sat down across from her with a sundae that was twice as tall as its cup, drizzled with hot fudge and butterscotch. Amid the tower of whipped cream, chocolate sprinkles, and nuts were two maraschino cherries.

"How'd you get the extra cherry?" she asked. "Did you turn on the Queen charm?"

Connor frowned, and she had to swallow down a laugh. His confused face was the exact twin of Oliver's confused face.

"No, I just asked," he said. "I asked if I could have one for you." He picked up a cherry by the stem and held it out to her.

Felicity just about melted into a puddle of feelings right there. She felt tears welling up in her eyes, so she bit her lip to keep them from falling.

"Connor—"

He sighed dramatically. "I know, I know, you love me. You don't have to get all sloppy about it every time."

That made her laugh. "True," she said, taking the cherry from him and popping it in her mouth.

"I don't think my dad loves me."

Felicity almost choked on the cherry. She had to cough a few times, which gave her a moment to consider her answer. Then she propped her chin on her hand and made sure he was looking into her eyes.

"Connor, do you trust me?"

"Sure," he said without hesitation, then slurped a bite of whipped cream off his spoon.

"Then you should believe me when I say your dad loves you more than anything. There aren't enough words in the world to describe how much he loves you."

"But it doesn't feel like it," Connor mumbled.

"I know." Felicity reached across the table and squeezed his hand. "But you know what else I know?"

He shrugged.

"I know your dad better than anyone else does."

It wasn't like when she'd said it to Ray. She was confident in her statement. No qualifiers, no room for debate. And the tiniest intake of breath over her phone's speaker made her stomach flutter.

"I know how he thinks," Felicity continued. "So I'm pretty sure that when it feels like he doesn't want to spend time with you or get to know you, what's really going on is that he's scared."

"Oliver?" Connor said, sounding skeptical. "But he's so tough. And big. How could he be scared of anything?"

"Pretty easily," said Felicity. "Becoming a parent is really scary, and he's only had two months to get used to the idea, not seven years." Her ice cream was starting to melt—she licked a big drip from the side of the cone. "Oliver's afraid of messing it up, and he's afraid you won't like him, but more than anything else, he's afraid that the people he loves will be taken from him."

Another sharp inhale from the other end of the line.

"So it's easier for your dad to work late and skip parent-teacher meetings and miss out on ice cream, because he thinks that if he doesn't get attached to you, he won't lose you."

There was the confused face again. "That doesn't make sense," said Connor.

"You're right. And it's too late anyway, because Oliver's loved you since before you were born."

"But he thought I died before I was born."

"That's true," she agreed, "but he loved you when he thought you were alive, and he loved you when he thought you were dead, and he loves you so much now that I can't even describe it."

"But how do you _know_?" Connor asked.

She took a deep breath. It felt like the conversation was happening on two different levels, like everything she said to Connor was for Oliver too. And for herself.

"If you say you trust me, then trust me," she replied. "I know Oliver, and I know what his love looks like, even when I—when you can't feel it."

Immediately her phone vibrated with an incoming text.

_I do love him. So much. How can he doubt that?_

_He's not me. He doesn't understand,_ she typed back. _So show him. Choose him._

She closed the app and dropped her phone back into her purse, turning her full attention back to Connor.

Not until they were headed to the loft with full bellies did Felicity begin to feel nervous. Had she said too much? Or not enough? As they reached the door, she'd even started questioning if she ought to have inserted herself into Connor's life at all. Maybe she should have stayed out of it and let Oliver figure things out on his own.

Then the door opened as she was putting her key into the lock (_not_ the circumstances she would have wished for to get a key to Oliver's place), and Oliver was standing there, framed in the doorway.

"Sorry I missed ice cream," he said to Connor. "But I'm making us dinner."

Connor froze for a moment, staring at him. Then he was toeing out of his shoes and shrugging off his backpack as usual. "Great!" he said. "I'm starving." He followed Oliver inside.

Felicity came in behind them, kicking Connor's shoes out of the way and snagging his backpack by one strap. "I don't know how you can still be hungry," she called after the boy. "Your ice cream sundae was the size of Mount Everest."

"But I didn't eat the whole thing," Connor protested, following Oliver into the kitchen. "It started melting while we were talking, and then it got all soupy. So did your mint chocolate chip."

"I know. We'll have to do it again sometime, with lighter conversation and more ice cream-eating."

Felicity walked into the kitchen. The Iron Man backpack slid to the floor. So, she was pretty sure, did her jaw.

Oliver stood at the stove, with the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled up just past his elbows, and _of course_ he picked today to wear that dark blue three-piece suit. The jacket hung off the back of one of the barstools, but he was still wearing the vest, damn him. He was super hot, and he was _cooking_, and yeah, it kind of smelled like the grilled cheese was a little too well done, but she wasn't going to say anything that would cause him to go change, or move, or do anything other than just stand at the stove, looking delicious.

She shook her head. This wasn't about her. It was about Connor. The idea of Oliver as a father was kind of her Kryptonite, and she knew that the minute he stepped up to be a dad to Connor, she'd be in trouble. But Connor needed her right now. Obviously, because he was looking at her with the confused face again.

Actually, Oliver was making the same face, staring at the pan on the stove as curls of smoke drifted upward.

That broke the spell. She laughed, pushing him back from the stove with a hip-check. She snatched up the pan, squeaked when she saw a tiny orange flame, and plunged the whole thing under the faucet, turning the water on full.

He stared at her. "You ruined our dinner."

She poked at the soggy mess with a fork. "No, I think you beat me to it." She looked over at Connor. "Pizza?"

He nodded. "Pizza."

"Oliver, could you get my purse? I left it by the door. I have that app on my phone with Connor's favorites saved in it."

Oliver dipped his head—it might have been a nod—and left the kitchen. Felicity turned to Connor.

"Okay, talk," she said. "Fast."

"What's going _on_?" asked Connor. "He's being so _weird_."

"I'm sure it feels like that, because you're used to him avoiding you. But if you get all weird about it, he'll feel bad, and he feels bad, he might—"

"He might change his mind," Connor said darkly.

"I don't think he will," she replied, "but he's skittish. Kind of like a wild squirrel. So just go with it and try not to spook him."

Oliver came back in soon enough to catch the end of Connor's smile. It made _him_ smile, and oh dear Lord, she was in _so _much trouble.

When he'd been avoiding Connor, he'd been avoiding her too, and two months was long enough to almost start forgetting how Oliver made her feel just by being in the room.

"Get a hold of yourself, Smoak," she muttered. She took her purse from Oliver. "So I'll order you guys some pizza, and then I'm just . . . going to head home."

"You can't leave," Connor protested. "It's sleepover night."

"Oh, right. Well, we can reschedule it. Father-son time trumps sleepover night."

Connor's face fell. He leaned into Felicity and pulled her down so he could whisper in her ear. "But you promised. And he's being _weird_."

"Haven't you been planning sleepover night for two weeks?" asked Oliver.

"Yes." Connor pulled on her again. "_Please_."

His fingers were digging into her arm. How could she say no?

"Okay."

Connor slumped against her in relief.

"As long as it's okay with Oliver," she added. "I don't want to intrude on your time together."

"It's not, it's not," Connor said, pulling her toward the living room.

As he pulled her past Oliver, Oliver leaned forward just far enough that his lips brushed against her ear. "You are never an intrusion, Felicity."

She barely repressed a shiver, letting Connor tug her over to one of the couches.

"Wait," she told him. "My bag is still in the car, and I'm _not _having sleepover night in my work clothes."

"I'll get it," Oliver offered. "Stay here, order pizza."

Felicity handed him her keys, and he left the apartment. Connor climbed onto her lap and helped her order pizza with the app on her phone. When they were finished, she gave him a little squeeze and kissed the top of his head.

"How come you're so cuddly all of a sudden?" she asked him.

"I got tired of trying not to be."

Oh, she wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. Instead, she unbuckled the straps of her heels, slid them off, and stretched out her legs, propping her feet on the coffee table. Connor snuggled closer and pulled up Candy Crush on her phone.

"Are you going to play games on my phone, or are we going to watch a movie?"

"I'm going to get you past level 347, and then you're going to find us something to watch that isn't Disney," Connor said. "Something PG."

"PG? I don't know. You're seven."

Oliver came in, setting down her bag and her keys soundlessly, allowing the conversation to continue without interruption.

"Felicity, I read all the Harry Potter books already. I watched all the movies. Twice."

"But—"

"All the Spider-Man movies, everything with Iron Man in it," Connor continued. "I've even seen all the Lord of the Rings movies."

Felicity sighed. They'd been having this debate ever since the idea of a sleepover night first came up.

"Connor, they're just—they're so dark, parts of them. Especially the second one. I'm just not sure—"

"_Pleeeeeeease._" Connor wrapped his arms around her middle and batted his eyelashes at her. Oliver snorted.

"All right. I guess if you've seen the Lord of the Rings movies, it won't be—"

"Thank you, thank you, thank you!"

"Should I be concerned?" Oliver asked.

"The Christian Bale Batman movies," Felicity said, tilting her head back to look at him. "We've been going back and forth on it for a while."

"I need my pillow." Connor jumped up and left the room.

"And I need my yoga pants," Felicity said. She dropped her legs from the coffee table and got up. "I have to ask, though. What brought this on?" She waved her hand around. "Being here when he got home, trying to cook dinner . . . actually being parental. Is it like temporary insanity, or is it going to last?"

He took a deep breath and let it out in a loud huff. "It's like—like waking up, I hope," he said. "Because you were right."

Felicity beamed. "That is my favorite thing to hear you say, besides my name."

"Oh, really. That's good to know." He was smirking.

"Anyway, what was I right about? I'm right about so many things. You'll have to be more specific."

He put his hand on her forearm. "You were right about Connor. I _am_ afraid. I'm terrified, and I let it completely take hold. I let it get in the way of having a real relationship with my son."

His voice shook a little on the last word, so she put her hand over his and gave it a squeeze.

"My son. Is that ever going to sound normal?" he asked. "You know, like it's routine and not . . . not _everything_."

Felicity smiled. "I'm going to remind you of this moment the first time he gets grounded." She let go of him and reached for her bag, but Oliver stopped her, his hand still on her arm.

"Felicity."

Yup. Still her favorite.

"Thank you," he said.

She nodded. "Still want me to stay? You could have him all to yourself."

"Nah. I heard him say I'm being weird. It'll help him relax to have you here." He brought up his other hand to give her shoulder a little squeeze. "And I've missed you."

Ugh, he was so hard to resist when his eyes went all soft and hopeful. And she'd missed him too. So freaking much. Avoiding Connor had meant avoiding her. She was lonely without her best friend, her partner, her . . . .

That line of thinking was dangerous. She stepped around him, his hands dropping from her shoulders, and picked up her overnight bag. Then she turned around.

"Oh. Um. The times I've been here overnight, I usually change in your room. Because Connor has his room, and sometimes Thea's here, but you never are—I don't mean to pass judgment on you." She waved her free hand around. "Except I kind of do. I feel very judgey about the way you've been acting, but you're clearly turning a corner, so—"

Oliver did that head-tilt, half-chuckle thing he used to do when they first met and she'd go off on some tangent. "Feel free to change in my room," he said. "And if there's anyone who has any right to judge me for what I've done—or what I haven't done—it's you."

"But I don't like judging you. It makes me feel bad," she said. "I hate being angry with you."

"I know. Me too."

"I'm ready!" Connor said, running into the living room. He'd changed into his new favorite pajamas, the _Doctor Who _ones Felicity had gotten for him that looked the Tenth Doctor's brown pinstriped suit, and he was holding his pillow. "Why aren't you changed yet?" he asked Felicity.

"It's my fault," said Oliver. "I waylaid her."

Felicity held up her bag. "I'm on my way. Oliver, you should change too."

"Into pajamas? It's five o'clock. Barely."

"It's Friday," she replied. "And it's sleepover night. Sleepover night started as soon as we walked in."

She changed quickly in Oliver's room. She'd never liked it in there. He hardly spent any time in his bedroom, so it had zero personality. It felt—and kind of looked—like a hotel room, and it made her sad. Her bedroom was her sanctuary. Where was Oliver's?

They passed each other in the hallway outside his room. He took in the sight of her sleepover night ensemble, a pair of super-soft gray yoga pants and a pink shirt that said, _My relationship status is Netflix, pajamas, and wine_. Her socks were bright orange and fuzzy.

"Nice jammies," he said.

"You should see my Superman ones," she retorted, walking away with a smirk on her face and a little sway, too. Because the hem of her shirt only reached down to her hips, and these yoga pants made her butt look _awesome_.

Felicity paid for the pizza when it arrived, while Connor pulled the movie from Oliver and Thea's embarrassingly scant DVD collection. Oliver soon joined them, wearing a gray t-shirt and blue striped pajama pants. And his feet were bare, which was apparently a thing for her, because her stomach did another funny little flip. She looked away. Thank God there would soon be something on the TV for her to stare at.

"Remember that time I wore my Batman pajamas, Connor?"

"Yeah," said the boy. "It was last Thursday. And I'm still a little mad at you."

"Really? I thought all was forgiven," she said.

"What's this about?" Oliver asked.

Connor shrugged. "Felicity gets really bossy when she wears her Batman pajamas."

"It's true," she agreed. "They make me feel sassy." She leaned into Connor, and he tried to squirm away from her. "It was our first fight," she said with a fond sigh.

When the movie started, they were all a foot apart on the enormous couch in front of the equally enormous TV. After Connor had eaten three slices of pizza and guzzled down enough soda to cause Felicity to strategically plan bathroom breaks for good stopping places during the movie, he tucked his pillow under his head and curled into her side.

"You'll warn me about the scary parts, right?" he whispered.

"Absolutely," she said, unable to resist kissing the top of his head.

Two hours later, as the credits rolled on the screen, Connor was silent, not begging for the sequel as she'd expected. Felicity glanced at Oliver, who was giving her a thoughtful look she'd never seen before and couldn't decipher.

"What?" she asked.

"Nothing." He shook his head. Was he _blushing_?

"It's not nothing. Tell me."

"It just looks right, that's all. You, holding him."

Oh, no, they were _not_ going down that road tonight. That was a conversation they should have in regular clothes, at least three feet apart from each other, and preferably in public, which would keep her from using her Loud Voice and making a scene.

Fortunately—or unfortunately—Connor interrupted before Oliver could take that line of thought any further.

"I don't feel too good." He said it about two seconds before he sat up and vomited. Not enough warning.

Felicity scooped him up and carried him to the bathroom, leaving Oliver to deal with the mess and not feeling too bad about it. That would kill his confessional mood for sure.

After a while, Oliver joined them in the bathroom. Connor was leaning against the toilet with his arms propped up on the lid, and Felicity was rubbing his back. Oliver ran a washcloth under the faucet and handed it to Felicity. She laid it on the back of Connor's neck.

"What's going on, do you think?" Oliver asked her, his voice low. "A virus, maybe? Or just too much pizza?"

"No," Connor said. "I've been keeping a secret."

"Runs in the family," Felicity muttered. Oliver gave her a look, which she pointedly ignored.

"I'm lactose intolerant."

"What?" she and Oliver said in unison.

"Dairy makes me sick." Connor looked up. Felicity recognized that sad-puppy face. She'd seen it on Oliver more than once.

"So those stomachaches you've had—I thought that was just nerves! That you were worried about school!" Felicity exclaimed. "Are you telling me I've been slowly killing you with dairy for two months?" She clapped her hand to forehead. "And today! With the pizza and the ice cream. Oh, I'm the worst parent _ever_."

Her mouth dropped open, and she was trying to figure out how on earth she could fix _that_ verbal faux-pas, when Oliver leaned past her to place his hand on Connor's back.

"You ready to move somewhere more comfortable, or do you think you need to stay close to the toilet for a while?" he asked the boy.

"I want to go to bed," Connor mumbled.

Oliver picked him up, one arm under Connor's butt like a seat while his legs dangled. Then he extended a hand to Felicity, which she took, and pulled her to her feet in one easy move.

While he put Connor to bed, Felicity used her phone to Google lactose intolerance. A shopping trip was in order, to replace the dairy items in the fridge with lactose-free versions.

Oliver had done a good job cleaning up while she'd been in the bathroom with Connor. The damp spot on the rug in front of the couch was the only sign anything out of the ordinary had taken place.

It was still too early for bed, and there was the problem of sleeping arrangements. Felicity had thought she'd just go home, since Oliver was there, but Connor had asked her to stay. So they sat on the couch, three feet apart, taking turns to check on Connor. Oliver channel-surfed, and Felicity sifted through work e-mails on her tablet.

It felt weird to be spending time with Oliver when Arrow business wasn't involved. It felt weird to be spending time with him, period. And the weight of everything they'd said and hadn't said was stifling. She needed wine.

Felicity had been the one to childproof the loft, so she knew where the booze was. She'd been the one to hide the practice bow, and the sketches for trick arrows, and the swords. _Swords_. Who leaves a sword lying around their apartment? She shook her head as she walked into the kitchen and opened the designated liquor cabinet.

She didn't realize Oliver had followed her until she was stretching on her tiptoes to reach for a wineglass. He came up next to her and grabbed two glasses easily. He didn't even have to extend his arm all the way.

"You seem very at home here," he said, setting the glasses on the counter.

She spoke as she poured. "It's Connor's home. So I'm here a lot."

"How many times have you stayed over?"

"A few," she said.

_Four_.

She handed him a glass. He tilted it toward and said something in Russian before taking a sip.

"Why are you asking?" she said, suddenly paranoid. "Do you want me to go? Because I said before, I can just go. You should be with your son."

"Felicity." He set down his glass and put his hand on her shoulder. "Stop over-thinking. Connor wants you here. I want you here."

They split the rest of the bottle of wine, saying little. Felicity tried to look busy on her tablet while Oliver browsed Netflix, ultimately choosing nothing, going back to a _Mythbusters_ marathon. The wine made Felicity drowsy, which cut down greatly on the awkwardness of sleeping arrangements. She simply let Oliver point her in the direction of his bedroom.

She'd only slept in there once before, and she hadn't been able to bring herself to climb under the covers, choosing instead to curl up on top of the comforter with an afghan draped over her shoulders. It had just seemed too intimate to sleep where he slept when they were . . . whatever they were. In this maddening holding pattern where neither of them said anything but were both thinking very loudly.

This time, she was too groggy to care. Felicity turned back the covers and climbed in, breathing in deeply. That unique Oliver smell—leather, spicy aftershave, sweat, and something else that was just him—lulled her to sleep.

"Felicity? Can I lay down with you?"

She rolled onto her side and squinted at the clock. Middle of the night. She pushed back the covers and patted the mattress in front of her.

"Come here, nugget," she said.

He climbed onto the bed and mashed up against her. "This doesn't count as sleepover night, right?"

Felicity smiled against his neck. "Right. We'll do it again sometime when you're feeling better. Without the dairy."

He sighed happily and soon fell asleep. Felicity, now wide awake, laid there enjoying the moment, trying not to think about how things would change now that Oliver was getting involved in parenting.

Just as her thoughts began to spiral downward, remembering her remark in the bathroom about being Connor's parent, Oliver stepped into the room.

"Hey," she whispered.

"Hi."

Even in the dark, she could sense the smile on his face. When Oliver smiled, the air in a room changed.

"I went to check on him, and he wasn't in his room," he continued. "Figured this is where he'd end up."

A thought flew into her head, and just as quickly she pushed it back out again. _Nope. No way, absolutely not . . . highly inappropriate under the circumstances . . . mixed messages all around . . . Oh, damn it all to hell. I'm doing it._

"Come here, Oliver."

She didn't have to say it twice. He crossed the room in two strides, pulled back the covers, and climbed in next to her. He bent his knees behind hers, pressed his chest to her back, draped his arm over the arm she had around Connor.

Part of her was screaming that she was spooning with Oliver, but the rest of her was wrapped in warmth and peace and those magnificent arms. The rest of her was really, really sleepy.

"Mmmm."

Felicity woke up slowly, coming into awareness bit by bit. She was still lying on her side. The weight of Connor's sleeping form against her was gone, and something else was different. She looked down.

_Ah. That's a new development._

Both of Oliver's arms were around her, on top of her own, his fingers interlaced with hers. She could feel his breath lifting the tiny hairs on the nape of her neck. This was pretty much her new favorite thing. But she couldn't stay like this.

"Oliver."She squeezed his hands. "Oliver, it's morning."

He hummed into her shoulder, holding her tighter.

"Oliver." Felicity let go of his hands and squirmed out of his arms. The abrupt lack of his body heat sent a river of goose bumps rippling across her skin.

"It's Saturday," he mumbled, his eyes fluttering open. "No work. Nowhere to be."

Oh, now she was warm. His raspy morning voice set her face aflame.

She threw a pillow at him. "We are having a serious conversation today. Oliver."

"Mmmno, no being serious today."

"Yes, we are," she said, hands on her hips. "Because I want today to have been the first morning I've ever woken up in your arms, not the last one."


	8. Chapter 8--If Wishing Made It So

**_(A/N: Tumblr prompt from tallandfeisty-Oliver comforting a crying Felicity after a rough day. I feel like this is a little OOC because canon Felicity has only ever been shown crying over really big things. But really big things are too complicated for a short scene.)_**

**If Wishing Made It So**

Oliver Queen didn't have bad days anymore.

Not really. After his five years away, when sometimes the definition of a good day was just surviving to see the next one, all the irritating things that piled up to make a difficult day almost felt like a gift.

It definitely hadn't been an easy day, and when he finally limped into the Foundry just after midnight, favoring his bad knee, he hoped Felicity would still be there. He needed a little contact, a comforting hand, a gentle squeeze of his arm, candy pink nails bright against green leather. She didn't often leave before him, but with the way the rest of his day had gone, Oliver wouldn't have been surprised to be cheated out of this as well.

But she was still there, and from the looks of it, she'd had a worse day than him. Felicity had pushed her chair back from her workstation. Her feet were bare, her glasses were off, and her eyes were wet.

"Felicity?"

She spun around to face her monitors instead of him, but she cocked her head at the sound of his slightly dragging footsteps.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

She took a deep, shaky breath. "I'm fine. Or I will be, eventually."

"Felicity." God, he loved her name, loved how he could pour into those four syllables everything he couldn't find words for.

"It's just been a rough day, Oliver. I said I'll be fine."

He pushed back his hood. Nothing else seemed important anymore. The succession of small aggravations he'd faced all day melted away, his own need for comfort fading in the face of her tears. He took her hands and drew her to her feet. Without a word, he enfolded her in a full-body hug, the kind he never would have dared if she hadn't been crying.

Without her heels, the top of her head barely reached the height of his collarbone. Her arms went up his back to hang from his shoulders, and he held her tight, enveloping her in his warmth. He lifted her off her feet for a moment, and she pressed her face into his neck, letting out one hiccupping sob. Just one.

Felicity's blinking, wet eyelashes tickled the sensitive skin at his throat, sending a shiver through him. He had pictured her lips on his neck more than once.

He pushed the image aside. "Want to talk about it?" he asked.

"No," she said with a sniff. "It'll sound stupid out loud."

Oliver drew back from her just enough to meet her watery gaze. "If you're feeling it, it's not stupid."

"It's not stupid what I'm feeling," Felicity replied. "The stuff that's making me feel this way is stupid." Her arms dropped from his shoulders, and a tiny wave of disappointment rippled through him. "It was just a bad day," she continued. "My stupid coffee maker broke, and I was running late. I spilled my mocha down the front of my dress."

He looked down at her clothes. She wore a short-sleeved purple sweater and black pants.

"These are my laundry emergency clothes," she said, noticing him noticing her. "I don't even like these pants!" she wailed. "They make me look like I have a poochy little belly."

His lips twitched as he fought back a smile.

"And then my assistant called in sick, which he _never_ does, so either he's dying or he's decided he doesn't like me. So the phone was ringing off the hook, and Ray interrupted every five minutes with some brilliant thought, until he could tell I stopped listening, which took him a lot longer to figure out than it should have. It's all dumb stuff." She swiped her hand under her running nose. "I just wish I didn't feel so much."

He put his hands on her shoulders. "You feel things deeply. It's one of the things I love most about you, Felicity. Don't wish that away."

Oliver drew her back in, and she turned her head so her ear was pressed against his heart. After a long minute that wasn't nearly long enough for him, she spoke.

"Well, if you like it so much, then you're just going to have to deal with it," she said.

He breathed in the fruity scent of her shampoo and the faint aroma of coffee. He allowed himself to feel everything for a moment: the rise and fall of her chest against his ribs, her small hands pressing into his should blades, the damp spot on his neck from her tears. He brushed his lips across her temple.

"It would be my honor."


	9. Chapter 9--To Face Unafraid

_**(A/N: Anon on Tumblr asked for something holiday-related set in my Connor!verse-see "The Family Jewels," chapter 7 here-so I did this last night before I went to sleep. Takes place sometime not long after the events of "The Family Jewels." It was lovely. Thanks, anon!)**_

**To Face Unafraid the Plans That We've Made**

Felicity can't breathe through her nose, and she's pissed about it.

"It's Christmas Eve, and you're baking. Baking! And I can't smell it," she moaned. "I can't even smell the inside of my nose."

Oliver turns to her with flour-covered hands, frowning. "What would the inside of your nose smell like?"

"Boogers," Connor suggests.

"Makes sense," Oliver agrees.

He turns back to the counter to hide his smile. It's getting harder to do. She's commented on it more than once, that this smile is different, wider, softer. And she's noticed that it only comes out when it's just the three of them.

Thea's sick too. She was the first to fall ill—Felicity's stuffy nose came two days later. Oliver misses having his sister in the kitchen, making jokes and wry, pointed observations about him and Felicity. But she was coughing so much that she couldn't carry on a conversation, so Felicity had made her a hot toddy (after Googling how to make a hot toddy) and sent her to bed.

And it's not something he's ready to admit out loud, but Oliver really loves when it's just the three of them.

"You know we'll put you to work when it's time to frost these babies, right?" he says to Felicity, pointing at her with a spatula.

She has an odd look on her face. And then she blows a raspberry, the laughter she'd been holding back now bubbling forth in bright peals that inflate his heart.

"I won't take orders from you," she says when she can speak again. "I _cannot_ take you seriously while you're wearing that. I can barely even look at you."

His getup _is_ a little ridiculous. He and Connor are wearing matching green and red Christmas sweaters with Darth Vader on them, gifts from Felicity's mom. (She sent Felicity one too, and demanded a photo of the three of them. They've been avoiding the topic.) And in order to convince Connor to wear an apron, he'd had to don one himself. God knows where it came from. It's bright turquoise, and the text across the chest reads, _BEST BUNS IN TOWN!_

Oliver feels The Smile tugging his mouth up at the corners again. "Grown women in _Frozen_ pajamas shouldn't throw stones."

Her flannel pants are printed with miniature Olafs, and she's wearing an Anna shirt with tiny lights sewn onto it. There was a little button on it that would play "Do You Wanna Build a Snowman?" when pushed, but it broke after four repetitions, thank God. Oliver had given her the pj's for the third night of Hanukkah, a decision he instantly regretted.

No, he didn't. Not when he saw the smile that lit her face.

But she and Connor are both fading by the time the frosting is made. Oliver sends his son off to bed with a warm cookie and then turns to Felicity.

"Don't look at me like that, Oliver," she says, fiddling with one of the blinking lights on her collar. "There's a limit to how much you can order me around. I'm not ready to go to bed yet."

He's a little closer to admitting _this_ out loud: how much he loves it when it's just the two of them.

Felicity stays in the kitchen while he frosts six dozen cookies ("Yeah, maybe we overdid it") and loads the dishwasher. When he finishes cleaning up, he turns around to find her slumped at the counter, her head pillowed on her arms. She looks up when he says her name—her face is flushed, and her eyes are fever-bright. It's a testament to how sick she is when she doesn't protest as he gathers her into his arms and carries her to bed.

There isn't a guest room—it's Connor's now—so he takes her to his own bedroom, planning to spend the last few hours of Christmas Eve on the couch.

But she asks him to stay.

"Please. I feel so miserable. Just . . . stay."

Oliver doesn't need to be told twice.

He keeps a polite distance between them on the queen-sized bed at first, but their hands find each other in the dark, fingers entwining.

In the back of his sock drawer, tucked inside the toe of an argyle sock with a missing mate, is a ring. It's been in there for months. Before that, it was in a safety deposit box, a pipe dream. He's not ready to take it out yet, but he knew the instant it had been handed to him—by a police officer after his mother's death—he knew who he would give it to.

Oliver squeezes her fingers. When she rolls over and tucks her head under his chin, he feels another smile spread across his face. Thea calls it his Felicity smile.

No, it isn't time for the ring yet, but he's ready for something more than friendship, if she is. He would do anything Felicity asked, and he'll gladly accept whatever she's willing to give.

"Merry Christmas, Felicity," he murmurs in the dark.

He does love when it's just the two of them.


End file.
